Love May Fail (36 page)

John Figler is a law-abiding high-school student. He says in his letter that he has read almost everything of mine and is now prepared to state the single idea that lies at the core of my life’s work so far. The words are his: “Love may fail, but courtesy will prevail.”

—K
URT
V
ONNEGUT
J
R
.,
Jailbird

When my phone’s navigational system tells me I’m close enough to see the spot, I search the triangle of grass at the heart of this little western Massachusetts town, which looks just as Chuck described. I immediately spot Mr. Vernon sitting on a park bench with a small yellow dog in his lap, basking in the midafternoon sun.

I park my truck at a distance and watch him for a time. He’s wearing a blue turtleneck, which makes him look like a sea captain or an elderly Ernest Hemingway. He’s also looking up at the clouds, petting his rather calm dog. Mr. Vernon’s peaceful expression seems very much at home on his face. I fight the urge to smack it off. I also want to give my former teacher a fierce hug.

My mind flashes on the last time I saw him caning his way into the Oaklyn police station. I can’t believe how much time has passed.

It’s a strange mix of emotions—excitement, anger, relief, and even disbelief.

So much of the past is being dredged up.

And yet we’ve come full circle somehow.

Chuck was right—I need closure, which is why I’m here. I haven’t been able to move on.

I’m stuck.

Desperate.

I find myself walking toward Mr. Vernon.

He recognizes me now, even though I have on sunglasses and a silk scarf tied around my neck, but he doesn’t stand, maybe because of the dog on his lap.

He’s scratching the dog’s floppy ears and smiling, peaceful as the Buddha.

When I’m within earshot, in an overly dramatic voice, Mr. Vernon says, “‘The Teacher is here and is calling for you.’”

“What? Who said that?” The bitchiness in my voice embarrasses me, even though I have a right to be bitter.

“Martha says that to Mary. John 11:28. Am I not your Lazarus?” he says. “My mother was big on making me memorize biblical verses when I was little. I can damn near quote the whole New Testament.”

“I think that teacher reference would make you Jesus, right? You
are
the teacher.”

“I’m definitely not Jesus. No,
you’d
be Jesus in this metaphor. I am the metaphorical Lazarus, and you are—”

“Oh, fuck metaphors already. This isn’t English class, for Christ’s sake. And fuck you for leaving me like that at the Manor. That was a mean, horrible, cowardly thing to do. We’ve been worried for
years
!”

“In all fairness, yours was a pretty dirty trick played at a time when I was in crisis. You were deceitful,” he says. “You didn’t take into account the emotional shock that—”

“We were throwing you
a party
!”

“Well, I didn’t
want
a party.”

I smile proudly. “Well, you invited me here today. So I must have been right about something.”

“True.” He nods.

“And I still haven’t forgiven you, for the record.”

“Well, I forgave you. Officially,” he says. “Quite some time ago.”

“I remain pretty pissed off.”

“And yet you came to see me.” He’s lost weight, and the skin hanging from his jaw sags red and loose, which maybe explains the slightly outdated turtleneck choice. Mr. Vernon’s wrinkles have deepened, and yet he looks younger somehow, less stressed, maybe even at peace.

“What the hell is this about?” I say and then laugh in spite of myself. “Why have I driven all the way up here? Am I out of my mind? It’s like we’re yoked in some strange way. Like we’re—I don’t know. I’m too tired to be clever these days.”

“Will you sit with me?” he says, and pats the empty bench next to him.

Sitting down next to Mr. Vernon feels wonderful, maybe because I’m truly exhausted after the six-hour drive—not to mention the toll that my failed life has taken on me—but I can’t resist saying, “I knew you wouldn’t kill yourself. You’re better than that.”

“I really don’t think it’s a question of being ‘better,’ but being
sick
. It’s more of a mathematical equation maybe. When the bad tips the scales egregiously . . . I had a couple of close calls, if you really want to know. Spent some time at a facility. Nice place on a lake. It was good for me. I took some meds for a while. Talked to a few shrinks. Some good. Some crazier than me. Even wrote a letter to Edmond Atherton. Forgave him too. Spent a lot of time wrapped up in a wool blanket, sitting on an Adirondack chair watching loons—listening to them call to each other across the water. Have you ever heard a loon call? Beautifully haunting. Healing. They just keep calling and hope for the best. There’s something to be learned from that.”

The mania that was in his eyes the last time I saw him—it’s vanished.

Mr. Vernon has found something.

“Who’s this?” I point to the little somewhat-poodle-looking mutt that seems to be a permanent part of Mr. Vernon’s lap, if the dog’s comfort level is any indication.

Mr. Vernon smiles proud as any father. “This here is Mr. Yo-Yo Ma.”

“You named your
yellow
dog Yo-Yo Ma? Seriously? Isn’t that racist?” I say before I can stop myself.

“I certainly didn’t intend it to be.” He shrugs off my accusation, looking down at his pet the way mothers gaze at newborn babies. “No one will ever replace Albert Camus, but Yo-Yo Ma is my new buddy. Well, I’ve had him for almost a year now, so he’s not exactly
new
. But our life together feels fresh—like we’re still at the beginning. It’s a
new
life for us—for me.”

“What do you mean?
What
new life?”

He smiles at me. “I read your book.”

My heart skips a few beats. “When?”

“At the right time,” he says rather ominously.

“The critics crucified me.”

“I don’t read critics,” he says. “I read novelists.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.

Finally, in this embarrassingly small, needy little-girl voice, I ask, “Did you like it?”

He looks into my eyes for an awkwardly long time. Then, rather than answer, he says, “Come on, Yo-Yo Ma. Let’s show Ms. Kane what we’ve been up to lately.”

The little mutt jumps down onto the grass, and Mr. Vernon stands with his wooden cane in one hand and the leash in his other. “Your book inspired me to do some volunteer work. Every Tuesday afternoon now. And today just happens to be Tuesday. Come on. I’ll show you.”

I follow Mr. Vernon, the familiar rhythm of his cane making me flash on our time together in Vermont and New York City as he crosses the street and little Yo-Yo Ma’s nails click on the concrete and asphalt. Then we walk for several blocks without saying a word. I need Mr. Vernon to help me believe again, and yet I fear he’s going to let me down. The whole time my heart pounds at the thought of where he might be leading me, but my brain does its best to kill any hopes that arise, popping every beautiful shiny bubble that floats up from my subconscious, even though deep down I’m pretty sure Mr. Vernon is going to show me something wonderful.

“This is it,” he says. “Where I volunteer.”

It’s a large tan brick building with some sort of World War II military cannon out front.

These words are etched in stone over the entrance:

Garvey Public High School

I start to feel lightheaded.

“Are you really teaching again?” I ask, wondering why he’s not in his classroom, if so. It seems like the time when a typical school day ends, but too early for teachers to leave the building.

“No, I’m not technically teaching. Not employed, anyway. No paycheck. Like I said before, I’m
volunteering
.”

“For what?”

Instead of answering, he says, “I want you to see something.”

We don’t go inside, which surprises me. I follow him to the side of the building, which is striped by three rows of rectangular windows.

Mr. Vernon turns around and faces me.

We lock eyes.

“The books we read in literature classes—just innocuous letters and symbols on paper, until we run the words through our brains and allow the fiction to manifest in the real world.”

“How do we allow fiction to manifest?”

“Through our actions.”

“What actions?” I laugh.

“Some students beat the hell out of you with a baseball bat, and some students save you by writing novels. And we’ve got to thank our saviors no matter how many times we feel attacked and broken, because we damn well need them. So that’s what today is about. Thank you, Portia, for
Love May Fail
.”

“I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here. Why did we need to come to the side of the building?”

“Look up”—he points to the third-floor row of windows, which open en masse—“and meet the Garvey Public High School Fiction Writing Club.”

Dozens of smiling young faces appear, arms emerge, and then paper airplanes are dive-bombing and gliding and loop-de-looping through the air above. The sky is full of the written thoughts of young people, and I’m instantly transported back almost three decades to when I threw a paper airplane out of a good ol’ HTHS window, when I first was challenged to believe in possibility and a life that was something more than my mother would ever know.

I start to cry again.

Mr. Vernon puts his arm around me. “Remember—this is your fault. You did this. The relentless Portia Kane.
You
.”

Arms keep popping out of the windows above, and paper airplanes continue to soar down toward us.

Before I have a chance to say anything, about two dozen high school kids pour out of the school and surround me. Each holds a neon-green copy of my book.

“You bastard. You’re actually teaching
Love May Fail
?” I ask Mr. Vernon.

“But courtesy will prevail,” he says proudly, finishing the opening rhyming quote from Vonnegut’s
Jailbird
. “And they genuinely love it. Just look at their faces. You can’t fake that level of enthusiasm, right, my future novelists?” His club members are beaming, nodding shyly, and smiling like they’re actually meeting a
real
fiction writer for the first time. It’s a weird dynamic, because I don’t feel like a “real” novelist. But Mr. Vernon’s huge, knowing grin somehow makes everything okay again, and I realize that this isn’t about Mr. Vernon, or me, or even my novel. It’s about something much larger. Cosmic forces are at work today. And maybe “real” is whatever you believe it is, in any given time or place.

I survey the young writers—they’re smiling naively, completely unaware of all that is to follow in their adulthoods, excitedly taking part in this good moment. Several young women are looking at me like maybe they’re exactly where I was when I was their age, desperately needing what Mr. Vernon offers, forging their own life philosophies in notebooks, or maybe on laptops and iPads or whatever fiction-minded kids use to dream these days.

And then, just like that, I’m back in my body again.

Everything is tingling.

I knew.

And now maybe I know again.

So when the kids ask with what seems like bona fide enthusiasm—even though I feel a little silly and self-conscious about it, not to mention the pathetically little practice I have—I sign their books.

Mr. Vernon stands proudly at the edge of the crowd, both hands on his cane. Yo-Yo Ma sits patiently by his master’s feet, looking up with unabashed adoration.

Another thought hits me hard as a lawn dart to the eye: this moment is so terribly unimportant to the rest of the world, yet it means everything to me somehow—and it’s enough.

So I sign and I sign and I sign.

The kids actually seem starstruck as they gape at my official author autograph and smile back appreciatively in a way that lets me know that a powerful teacher and a truly kind man prepped them for this good moment.

And at one point, I look up and see it.

The spark in Mr. Vernon’s eye—it’s back.

My beautiful headbanging wife/first reader, Al, who is largely responsible for everything good in my life; super second reader, Liz Jensen, who has faithfully answered e-mails with brilliance and hilarity for years now; the amazing Doug Stewart, agent extraordinaire and best third reader in the entire world; Sister Kim Miller (aka Miller Time), who taught me many wonderful things about nuns; Mark Wiltsey, for helping me with all things Haddon Township and for being a true brother; editors Jennifer Barth and Jennifer Lambert, for pushing me (very hard) to tell the best story I possibly could; my film agent, Rich Green, who routinely makes magic happen out west; my mother, who long ago made sure I would always believe in the impossible; my father, who first brought me to Oaklyn, the town I love so much; my passionate little sister, Megan, and her husband Aaron; my loyal little brother, Micah, and his wife Kelly; Barb and Peague, for allowing us to work on this (and every) book in the Vermont house; my friend and dedicated web master, Tim Rayworth, and his wife, Beth, who conjures a delicious celebration pie whenever I get good career news; Ben Lipchak, for showing up and doing the work; Mr. Canada, aka Scott Caldwell, for being Mr. Canada; Evan Roskos, a true friend in writing, coffee talks, and mental health; Dr. Len Altamura, who always picks up the phone; Scott Humfeld, steady as the sun; Roland Merullo, who has often shared wisdom over early-morning diner eggs; Bill and
Mo Rhoda, friends for decades; all of the many people at HarperCollins (and publishing houses around the world) who have worked tirelessly to promote this book; everyone at Sterling Lord Literistic and all of the foreign agents too; the many foreign editors who have made translations available; every single person who has ever purchased one of my novels, said or written something nice about my work, or attended one of my talks and stood in line afterward just to speak with me; the many devoted and big-hearted teachers who cared wildly and helped make me who I am today; and my former students, especially those of you who are following along.